My Daddy as Stand Your Ground
Hear me good, Son. Even if I’d named you God Bless America Even if we candy-paint the constitution on your Cutlass— Even if you were Charlie Pride racing the General Lee at Talladega with Billy Graham as your crew chief You better not win. They. Will. Kill. You. You think I’m lying? You think ’cause they can quote Madea movies and voted for the Obamas and ’cause Michael Jordan owns a team that we’ve made it somewhere? Let any one of ’em say Black and Matter and not be talking about outer space and watch the Bull Connor come out all them white news boys. I’m serious, Son. That’s why I keep this .45 on me wherever I go— work, funerals, fishing— ’Cause I believe ’em when they say “We want our country back.” They got to make it over according to their image. I know white peoples, Son. And they got no problems killing who and what they worship. No not one. Not. A. Damn. One.